Reckless (Chestnut Springs, #4)
Elsie Silver
1
Winter
“I can’t fathom why you feel the need to go work at that dingy little hospital in the country.”
I used to think Rob was a nice guy.
Now, I know better.
“Well, Robert,” I drawl, using his full name to piss him off as I shove a final sweater into my overfull suitcase. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there are humans—real live ones—who live in the country who are also in need of medical attention.”
I can’t figure out why I’m packing so much for a single shift. When I’m in Chestnut Springs, I live in scrubs in the ER and in leggings in my hotel room at night.
“Thanks for clarifying, Winter.” There’s a biting tone to his voice that might make some people flinch. But not me. A dark part of me takes immense pride in the fact I know exactly how to piss off my husband. My lips twitch as I struggle to contain my satisfied smile.
“But why that hospital? Why Chestnut Springs? You’re constantly taking off out there and you don’t even tell me you’re leaving. Come to think of it”—he scrubs at his chin in a dramatic fashion while leaning up against the door frame of my bedroom—“you never even considered my opinion on whether I would want my wife taking this job. This isn’t a smart career move for you at all.”
Every time he whines like a child, I find myself wondering what it is about him I ever found attractive.
I’m not sure when the dimple on his chin became repulsive to me. Only that it is. The way he parts his hair to the side with a little swoop that doesn’t even move when it’s windy used to make him appear suave and put together to me.
Now it looks fake.
Like so much of my life with him has been.
I’m fairly certain the only reason he styles it that way is because he’s too vain to admit he’s balding.
And nothing makes a man’s masculinity shrivel up and die for me quite like complaining about a woman exercising her professional independence. He might as well stomp his foot and storm out like a tiny chauvinist toddler.
I reach for the zipper and force it together against the bulging contents of my suitcase. “It’s funny,” I start, ensuring that I keep my tone cool and even. “It’s almost like . . . you are the very last person I would ever consult about my life.”
With a huff of air, I finally slide the zipper into place and stare down at the hard-shell case, propping my hands on my hips and letting a satisfied smile touch my lips.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean, Winter?”
The way he adds my name to the end of every sentence feels like he’s trying to scold me.
Joke’s on him. I won’t be scolded.
He’s blissfully unaware of what it takes to navigate the medical system as a young female doctor. If I let men as weak as Rob steamroll me on the regular, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
And this career is the only thing I’ve ever had that’s mine. So, he can fuck all the way off.
Flipping one hand over, I gaze down at my neglected nails, trying to look bored by him. I’m wondering if I can find a good place for a manicure in Chestnut Springs when I reply, “Don’t play stupid. It pairs so poorly with whining.”
I can’t help but ask myself why I’m still married. I know why I thought I was sticking it out. But now? Now, I just need to buck up and get it done. I glance back down at my suitcase, packed like I’m leaving for a long ass time, and wonder if my subconscious knows something I don’t.
Maybe that bitch is putting her foot down and breaking me out once and for all.
I’m not averse.
“Watch your fucking tone with me.”
My eyes narrow on my cuticles as I struggle to bite down the rage bubbling inside me. Hot molten lava simmering below the cool surface, just waiting to erupt all over the place.
But I’ve kept that at bay for years now. I will not let Doctor Rob Valentine be the one to make me erupt.
He’s not worth the energy.
I shift my eyes to him across the room. My room, because when I told him in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t be sleeping in the same bed as him any longer, he directed me to the guest room rather than moving himself out—like the true gentleman he is.
Even though he’s the one at fault.
He’s the reason we are where we are.
And the worst part is I loved him once. He was all mine. A safe place for me to land after growing up in what felt like some sort of domestic cold war.
I let my guard down with him. I fell so damn hard.
He broke my heart far worse than I’ll ever let anyone know.
I don’t respond to him; instead, I grab the handle of my suitcase and shove past his lean frame, heading toward the front door of our sprawling ten-thousand-foot home.
I hear him following. Dress shoes against marble. And of course, he doesn’t offer to carry my suitcase.
A wry smile twists my lips, and I shake my head at the thought he’d bother to lift a finger to help. The hardest thing for me to accept with the implosion of my marriage is that I didn’t see it coming. That I can be smart, and accomplished, and strategic in everything I do yet still allow this asshole to blindside me is just . . . humiliating.
Being swindled this way irks me to no end.
I can feel the rage radiating off of him as he seethes beside me. And I just carry on serenely, slipping my socked feet into a pair of tall leather boots and wrapping a long, brown wool coat around myself.
“Seriously, Winter? You’re not even going to dignify me with an answer?”
I methodically tie the coat belt around my waist, deciding I have zero desire to dignify him at all.
The problem is, Rob knows me well. We’ve been together for five years, which means he understands how to piss me off too.
His eyes trace over my face, taking on a vicious little slant. “I liked you better with lighter hair.” His pointer finger sweeps over my head, judging the darker streaks topped with a warmer tone. He’s always been obsessive about me having the silvery blonde hair, telling me how much he loves it. “This new color isn’t as appealing. It looks dirty.”
But the root touch-ups, the purple shampoo, and the deep conditioner were too much work for an exhausted resident, which is why I requested my stylist put in lowlights.
I blink a couple of times, like I can’t quite believe he has the nerve to act like the way I color my hair is a personal slight to him.
Except I can. Because this year he took his mask off and showed me all the entitled ugliness underneath.
“That’s funny. I liked you better when I thought you hadn’t groomed my little sister and then fucked her over.”
He scoffs. Scoffs. “That’s not how it was. She was obsessed with me.”
My nose wrinkles, smelling the bullshit wafting off of him. “A much older doctor saves his underage patient’s life. Uses his physical appeal and power over her to get her eating out of his hand. Becomes a hero to her. Then, as soon as she turns eighteen, starts fucking her on the down-low like she’s some sort of dirty secret. And when he meets her older, more appropriate sister, he drops her like a stone and marries the one that won’t cost him his job for a medical license violation. Oh!”—my finger shoots up in the air—“except, here’s the kicker. He doesn’t give up on the younger one quite yet. He stalks her and harasses her, sabotaging every new relationship of hers just because he can. Or maybe it makes him feel better about that receding hairline he tries to cover up.”
My anger swirls, but I’m the one stirring my pot by giving in to him at all.
His arms cross and he glares at me. All golden coiffed hair, bright blue eyes, and Ken-doll good looks. “You know I never loved her.”
White-hot rage lances through me. Everything around us blurs as my eyes focus on the asshole I married. I try to keep my voice cool. Years of practicing this facade have carried me through the most heart-rending of moments. I have this act down pat.
But today I struggle.
“You think you never loving her makes it better? That’s my baby sister you’re talking about. The one who almost died. And you fucked her around for years. And me? I don’t think you’ve ever loved me either.”
My words echo in the spacious foyer as we stare each other down.
“I have.”
I have. That’s his proclamation to me?
I laugh bitterly. “Who the fuck are you kidding, Robert? Do you ever tire of lying? Of trying to keep your stories straight? The jig is up. I see you. You made me believe I had something I never did. You played me.”
He doesn’t correct me. He just glares. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.